


Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 3

by Mozu



Category: Guild Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozu/pseuds/Mozu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Guild Wars 2 novel in progress.</p><p>Apologies for the wonky formatting - you can read the whole thing, properly formatted, over at http://bearzusmash.wordpress.com/thorn/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 3

**THORN, A SYLVARI’S TALE – Chapter 3**

**S.E. OFSTEIN**

 

“Hokay,” Mozu slurred, “beersh made from barley. Whatsh wisskey made outta?”

“Wheat,” Linebaugh snorted in amusement.

“Fashinating.”

“Wine’s made from grapes, all mashed up like, an’—”

“I had shome wiiiiine. Took it from a dead guy.”

“Ya dun say.”

“I doooooo.”

“Okay, I think ya had enough fer one night.”

“Yerrrrrrprobably right. The whole place has gone all slanty.” She gestured with one hand, but what she was trying to intimate was beyond him.

“C’mon, lass, up we go. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day—we’re headin’ overland.” He half-carried her up the stairs of the little roadside inn and dropped her into her bed.

They had made better progress than Linebaugh would have suspected since leaving the wagon behind—either the girl healed quickly, or she’d simply kept her mouth shut and plodded along, keeping his pace. Whatever the reason, it was certainly promising, as their path would now turn roughly northeast, heading for the lowest foothills of the Shiverpeaks, and the going would be much tougher than on the well-traveled roadway.

“I thought your people lived up in the mountains?” Mozu had interrupted as they were discussing their plans earlier that evening.

“Norn live all over . . . an’ I fuckin’ _hate_ the cold.”

“But—”

“I spent most o’ my youth aboard ship outta Lion’s Arch, fightin’ up an’ down the coast an’—”

Her eyes practically shone with excitement, “You were a pirate?”

“Ah, well, yasee,” he scratched his head, “we called ourselves _corsairs_.”

“That’s just a fancy word for pirate, isn’t it?”

“Anyhow . . .” Linebaugh returned to the discussion at hand, and ignored her petulant glare **.**

“Y’know what’s good fer a hangover?” he asked in a loud, cheerful voice the next morning.

Mozu groaned and put a hand to her eyes, trying to keep the bright sunlight from tearing them from her head. “Sleep and quiet?” she replied irritably. “A swift death?” Staggering along behind him under the weight of her overflowing pack—a gift from the grateful people of Harriston—the butt of her spear drew an unsteady, snaking trail in the dirt.

“A jog ta git the blood runnin’!” He turned and took off without another word, leaving the road behind and setting off across the seemingly endless fields of knee-high grass. Boy bounded alongside, and in a flash they’d covered a dozen yards or more.

“You have to be kidding,” she cursed under her breath and set out after them—sweating, stomach churning, head pounding.

Linebaugh slowed an hour later as he and Boy reached a large copse of oaks, and he drank deeply from his waterskin. The small form in the distance stumbled ever closer until Mozu finally flopped facedown before him as she, too, reached the grove.

He stood and scrutinized the groaning, motionless sylvari. “Where’s yer spear?”

“Mrmm?”

“Yer spear. Where is it?”

“Munno.”

“What?”

“I . . . dunno.”

“Ya dunno? Ya lost yer weapon?” He stood over her, hands on his thighs, and bellowed, “THA FUCK YA MEAN YA LEFT YER FUCKIN’ WEAPON BEHIND? GIT YER FUCKIN’ ARSE UP AN’ GO FIND IT.”

Mozu raised herself up on one elbow, horror at the idea of ever moving again written plainly on her face.

“GIT. THA. FUCK. UP.”

Sweat ran in rivulets down her face as she climbed wearily to her feet. She began to shrug the pack from her shoulders when Linebaugh shoved his face in hers, and shouted, sending spittle flying. “DID I SAY TA DROP YER GEAR? YA THINK I’M’A FUCKIN’ CARRY IT? YOU MOVE YER GODSDAMNED ARSE AN’ GO FIND YER FUCKIN’ WEAPON. IF YOU AIN’T THERE, SPEAR IN HAND, IN ONE HOUR, YER CARRYIN’ MY PACK THA REST O’ THA DAY, TOO.” He swept his arm around to point at a lone, gnarled tree, lording over a low hill in the far distance.

“Dun gimme that look,” he snapped at Boy as Mozu scrabbled away.

Nearly three hours later, spear indeed in hand, she fell to her knees before the small fire upon the hilltop. Mozu slipped from her pack and leaned back against it after fishing out her own waterskin. Eyes closed, she didn’t say a word, but merely panted in silence as she cradled the spear in her lap.

“Eat somethin’,” Linebaugh gestured at a pair of quail roasting over the fire, “then lemme have a look at that leg.”

 

The sun had begun to set when they stopped to set up camp. Mozu’s legs screamed in protest until she finally dropped her own pack and tossed Linebaugh’s at his feet with a grunt.

“Tired?” he asked her.

Her mouth hung open, and she nodded weakly as she propped herself against the nearest tree.

“Well, that’ll learn ya ta lose yer weapon, I hope. Treat yers with care an’ respect an’ it’ll be tha one thing ya kin always count on.”

She nodded again and closed her eyes.

“I hate ta be the bearer o’ bad news, lass, but we ain’t through yet. Camp needs settin’ up, fire needs buildin’ an’ we need dinner.”

Palm out, fingers spread, she wearily held up a hand to him.

“Aye, fine. Five minutes, no more.”

Linebaugh set out from camp in search of game, bow in hand, and left Mozu to deal with the fire. She considered rummaging through his pack to find the small charr-made firestarter, then shook her head and returned to the task at hand.

 _He’d know, and then I’d spend all night building fires, or he’d come up with some_ other _creative torment._

Crouched over the tinder, she sawed at the bow drill he’d taught her to make. Her legs cramped and spasmed, and although Mozu wanted to be angry with Linebaugh—and in a childish way she was—she knew she’d been a fool to lose the spear that morning.

_And a bigger fool to drink that much the night before._

Drink helped her sleep and forget the faces that still haunted her. They grew fainter day by day, however, and the rest and proper meals she’d had in past week had gone a long way toward healing her injured soul, not to mention the kindness of the people of Harriston, and the friendship of the norn and his lion.

Linebaugh had promised to turn her into a warrior—maybe not in so many words, but that was certainly his aim, no doubt—and she’d spoken words of iron to assuage his worries, but all the same, she wondered about her own convictions.

Would she kill again? Would she be able to kill again? Is it still murder if you’re saving the lives of others?

Mozu wracked her brain day in and day out searching for some mathematical formula or nugget of moral wisdom to guide her, but they eluded her still. These were probably questions that Linebaugh could at least shed the light of experience upon, even if he couldn’t banish all doubts or provide a definitive answer. She felt strange trying to broach the subject in light of his recent . . . outburst, however.

Neither had mentioned that night in the stableyard since, but Mozu suspected that it was something that would come up again in its own time, and she promised herself that she would listen and not judge when it did.  Just as Ronan had suffered terribly in her visions of the Dream, Linebaugh obviously bore some great wound that had never healed properly as well.

It confused her, though—what she could’ve done to set him off like that. Probably, it had nothing to do with her, but instead . . .

A whiff of smoke brought her out of her reverie. She glanced down. The tinder had caught, and it took her a few moments to register that fact. Quickly, Mozu snatched up the little bundle of twigs she’d gathered and added a few at a time until the flame was large enough to begin adding proper fuel. When it was crackling away merrily, she crawled to her pack and retrieved the small, sharp hatchet that was strapped to the side and went off in search of a fallen birch she’d spied not far from their campsite.

One foot upon the log, and the campfire dancing through the trees in the distance, she raised the hatchet above her head and froze. A cold sweat trickled down her back, and she trembled.

 _Go away, ghosts. You’ll find no pity_ here, she told herself. _If you’d wanted anything besides a brutal death, you’d’ve chosen an honest line of work._

“Fucking bandits,” she cursed, and raised the hatchet again. The soft wood split easily beneath her furious assault, and each wild swing sent another phantom villain back to its grave.

By the time Linebaugh and Boy returned, the fire blazed, and chased the darkness from the campsite.

“Look! Look!” Mozu exclaimed, pointing at the flames.

“Aye, that’s a fine fire ye’ve built. Didn’t go lookin’ fer my firestarter, I hope.” He let the question hang in the air.

“Nope!” she held up the bow drill and grinned.

 _Hah, she's like a kid_ , he remarked to himself as Mozu clapped and giggled and held her hands out toward the warmth. _Or a simpleton._

He dropped two large, buck-toothed, flat-tailed rodents – already skinned and gutted – upon a small pelt he tossed down. Mozu frowned as he leaned the bow and quiver against his pack.

“We’re having rat for dinner?”

“It’s a beaver. They build lil’ homes that dam up rivers ta make their own lakes.”

“Why do they do that?”

“Dunno. Guess they like swimmin’, an’ it’s good fer property values.”

“Huh?”

“Nothin’, nothin’. Anyhow, the meat’s good, an’ after that I’ll skin up these tails an’ drop ‘em inna pot o’ beans ta cook overnight. Hearty breakfast, an’ it should last us another day or so in case huntin’ gets scarce.”

“At this point, I could hardly care what you’d found as long as it didn’t have two heads. Even then, I’d consider it.”

Later, after they’d eaten and spent time chatting idly by the fire, Mozu lay back and turned the gleaming hatchet over and over in her hands. She ran her thumb along the edge, feeling for the few tiny nicks along the blade, and peered at the small scratches that now marred the otherwise perfectly new satin finish.

_Now you’re a proper tool. Maybe that’s all most of us need—a few dings and scratches and a little roughening up._

She returned the hatchet to her pack, wrapped the grey, woolen cloak snugly about her, and was fast asleep within minutes.

 

The outstretched branches of a tall maple shaded the swiftly flowing stream above which Mozu lurked. She crouched upon a tiny lip of rock that hung out over the water, breathing slowly and deliberately as Linebaugh had taught her while she held her bow at full draw, waiting, watching. Darting silver fish flittered in and out of the shadows, and a long length of fishing line ran from the barbed arrow to spool at her feet.

 _Only go fer tha movin’ ones_ , he’d instructed her, and turned this simple food-gathering errand into a completely infuriating exercise. Mozu glared at a trout that had slowed to nibble at some algae growing along the shore beneath her perch.

For hours now she’d hunched there as if rooted to the spot, and fired that same stupid arrow at least a score of times with only one trophy to show for all of her patience. Had she been allowed to go about this in her own way, she would have waded into the stream with her spear, and set to work.

Mozu had proven to be a fast learner and quite adept with the array of weapons that Linebaugh had begun to drill her in—sword, dagger, axe, bow—but the spear had proven to be her favorite. While the ranger wasn’t overly familiar with the weapon, he certainly provided some insight on ways she could wield it effectively when they drilled and sparred together.

The previous day, when tasked with gathering fish from this same stream, Mozu had taken to showing off a little, and speared four trout within the space of roughly five minutes. She could only assume that her little exhibition had earned her this day of bowfishing.

_No, wait . . . Is this punishment, or training? Is there even a difference with Linebaugh? I get it—shade’s important, water really tricks the eye, and if you crouch in one place long enough, you can no longer feel your feet._

Briefly, she considered giving up and heading back to camp, regardless of the consequences, but the thought of such a meager dinner stiffened her resolve. Mozu had been hungry, starving even, during her time spent lost in that ancient forest, but the pace Linebaugh kept, not to mention his training exercises and his constant attempts to catch her off guard, had given her a nearly insatiable appetite.

_Funny. That seems like ages ago._

The trout below began to move, and with a stroke of its powerful tail, dashed back into the sunlight downstream. Mozu released the arrow without a thought and hauled on the line.

As she dropped the trout into a leather bucket that stood beneath the tree, she froze. Her ears strained at a faint and unfamiliar sound.

 _Another of Linebaugh’s stupid tricks?_ she cursed the norn. _No. Hooves. Coming fast._

Mozu launched herself to her feet and ran. Linebaugh was tying off a line that he’d used to run their packs far up into one of the trees overhead when she burst through the bushes.

“What’s going on?” she panted.

“Centaurs. Prolly a scoutin’ party. No idea what tha fuck ther doin’ this far north, though. Grab yer shit.” He straightened up and tossed the spear into her waiting hands, “Time ta go ta work.” She snagged the quiver that hung from a low branch, and slid it, along with her bow, over her head and across her chest.

“Couldn’t we just cross the stream and quietly move on?” she asked, kicking dirt over the fire.

“An’ leave them fuckin’ animals runnin’ around? Bullshit. There's a couple isolated homesteads an' a ranch not far from here. We’ll put them fuckers in the ground afore we keep movin’.”

There was a metallic taste in Mozu’s mouth, and she rubbed nervously at the smooth wood of the spear with her thumb. She nodded, keeping her eyes on the ground, and as she turned to walk from the campsite, a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Hey.”

Mozu turned around and raised her eyes to meet Linebaugh’s. He leaned over to rest his forehead against hers. She blushed and clutched at his arm.

“Bein’ scared’ll keep ya alive longer’n bein’ cocky—‘long as ya remember what I taught ya, an’ ya remember ta use that pea-brain o’ yers,” he murmured, then winked and gave her a rough and awkward one-armed hug. “C’mon. We gotta find a good spot.”

Giving the camp a quick once-over, they stole away through the sparse maples, toward the sound of hooves in the distance.

 

Linebaugh and Mozu knelt in the shadow of a large tumble of boulders that stood on a small patch of high ground. “Here. We’ll engage ‘em here. I’ll keep ‘em pinned down best I kin, an’ deal with any o’ them filthy hooers that wanna try comin’ up this,” he explained as he pointed out the web of knobbly roots that blanketed one side of the small rise.

Mozu swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how dry her mouth was. “How many should we expect?”            

He shrugged as he peeked around the rocks. “Never seen a scoutin’ party less than six, but it sounds like more’n that.”

“Where’s Boy?”               

“Dunno,” Linebugh grumbled. “Out there somewhere. Dun dare call ‘im in an’ give away our presence, though. I figger he’s heard them centaurs comin’, assumin’ he ain’t got his whole head inna deer carcass at tha moment.”

“What if we have to fall ba—“

He cut her off with a look. “Lass. Enough questions. We ain’t got tha time, so get yer head in tha game. Centaurs ain’t got any idea we’re here, so let’s make tha best o’ it.”

_Game?_

 The clopping sound grew louder and louder, and she could feel their approach through the soles of her boots. Mozu lay her spear down as Linebaugh gestured for her to join him. They each selected an arrow, and drew as one.

The centaur came into view, galloping through the trees in a ragged, single-file line, and Mozu’s breath caught in her throat. Bare-chested and hugely muscled, their nearly human torsos sat atop what looked to Mozu like long-legged dolyak bodies. Feral, bestial faces scanned the forest in all directions, and they clutched an array of curved and ugly blades in their hands.

_These . . . these are nothing like the centaur that dwelt in the Grove._

Linebaugh nudged her with his elbow, and she raised the bow again. “Drop the lead, on my mark.”

Mozu sighted in, keeping her point of aim well ahead of the swiftly moving marauders. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead and into her eye. She blinked hard.

“Now,” he whispered.

Two centaur collapsed, skidding end over end as gangly legs flailed in the air. A third, close on the heels of the others, was unable to veer away in time and became tangled with his brethren. The snap of a leg was clearly audible from Mozu and Linebaugh’s position as the centaur slammed into the earth with a howl of pain.

“Ignore ‘im. He’s good as dead anyways.” Linebaugh reached for the warhorn that hung at his side.

Mozu nodded and clapped him on the shoulder as she moved to cover their rear. She cringed as he blew a long, loud blast from the horn that made her ears ring. Arrows began to clatter off the rocks, and Linebaugh raised his bow to answer in kind.

As she crept around the edge of the boulders, a huge female centaur was already bearing down on their position, galloping straight toward Mozu. Her heart thundered in her chest as she quickly loosed an arrow, but the centaur batted the clothyard shaft aside with a hide-covered shield and roared contemptuously. She scrabbled back to cover.

Cursing the sylvari in its crude tongue, the centaur came charging around the boulders with its crude, curved sword raised high. Numb fingers fumbled with an arrow. She took one look at the enraged creature and tossed the bow aside as she reached down into the leaf litter. Mozu stomped hard on the butt on the spear even as the point came up to meet the centaur’s charge. The raider’s eyes widened in shock in the split second before it impaled itself.

The spear exploded into splinters as the centaur’s charge carried it into and over Mozu, and they went down together. Once, twice, savage hooves pounded her ribs, and another clipped her head. Dazed and bleeding, Mozu managed to kick herself away from the thrashing creature, and her hand found the hide-wrapped handle of the centaur’s weapon.

What remained of the spear was firmly lodged in the body of the dying, wailing centaur. The point had entered just beneath one of the beast’s legs, and the force of its charge had driven the head of the spear, along with the sturdy metal crossguard just beneath, completely through its body to exit somewhere near its mid-back.

Mozu grit her teeth as she levered herself painfully to her feet with the aid of the blunt-ended sword and raised the blade with both hands.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and brought the sword down, silencing the centaur.

Pausing to take a few agonizing breaths, she squinted as she raised a dark and sticky hand to the dappled sunlight, and used her arm to wipe her own golden blood from the gash on her head. Mozu regarded the skewered corpse for a moment, and felt her blood run cold as she suddenly noticed the heads.

Three shriveled, rotting human heads hung from one of the many chains and belts that crisscrossed the centaur’s scant armor—an old man and two young girls. Her jaw clenched and her grip on the weapon tightened.

The sound of steel on steel nearby caused her to jump. Linebaugh was locked in combat with a reaver that had forced its way up the treacherous rise, and their weapons were a blur as the norn parried flurry after flurry of blows from the sword and axe the centaur bore.

She raised her own clumsy sword again and moved to flank the creature until she realized that Linebaugh was allowing the centaur to fall into a pattern, and she watched, fascinated, until she, too, saw the opening.

Weapon clashed against weapon in a deafening clamor until the axe came around again and met nothing but air. The surprisingly nimble ranger danced away, and the centaur overextended itself. Almost casually, Linebaugh ran his sword through its lungs and the creature collapsed with a gurgle. He gave the centaur a hefty shove with one boot to send it rolling back down to the forest floor.

Linebaugh turned to Mozu with a grin. “Har, ya look a mess, gir—holy shit.“ His eyes went wide. Mozu turned, and her legs began to tremble.

The enormous brute loomed above them, silently awaiting their attention. Skulls and severed heads, both human and norn, hung from mismatched armor gathered from vanquished foes. It gripped a blunt-tipped, wicked greatsword in its meaty fists and swiped Mozu’s looted blade from her clutches with a ringing blow that stung her hands and sent the sword spinning away into the forest.

She ducked low, and slipped and fell as the greatsword came around again. It passed above her head with a terrifying whistle, and Mozu panicked, scrambling in the dirt as the centaur hacked at her.

Linebaugh charged in, thrusting toward the centaur’s unarmored flank. The greatsword whipped around and slammed into the ranger’s hastily raised defense. Linebaugh’s sword shattered, and he crashed backward into the boulders to fall on all fours. The huge centaur contemplated the dazed norn for a moment, then turned its attention back to the sylvari.

Mozu regained her feet in time to catch the flat of the greatsword in her gut. The blow sent her flying, and she crumpled against the base of a maple, unable to breathe.

Through blurred vision she watched, helpless, as the centaur slowly approached and drew the greatsword back, preparing to end her life. She squeezed her eyes shut and emptied her bladder.

The blade bit deeply into the trunk mere inches above her head, causing the whole tree to vibrate. Slowly, Mozu opened her eyes to see the centaur standing above her, laughing, and a hoof lashed out at her face. One shovel-like hand reached out and grabbed the sprawling sylvari by the throat and lifted her up.

As the centaur slammed her back against the tree, its foul breath washed over her. The creature’s face pressed close to hers and smiled cruelly. “ _Not. Have. Sil-varee. Head. Yet._ ” The world swam before her eyes, and Mozu spat defiantly, which only set the centaur to laughing harder as drool and blood dripped pathetically from her swollen lips.

She tried vainly to blink the golden blood from her eyes, but it flowed freely from a dozen gashes on her face and head. The centaur’s hoof reared back again when Linebaugh, bellowing a great war cry, crashed into the creature. Down they went in a tangle, and Mozu crawled away, reaching out to the tree for support.

Hooves kicked and raked Linebaugh’s chest as the red-faced, maddened norn wrapped his vicelike hands around the centaur’s neck. The gasping beast scratched and clawed at Linebaugh’s arms to no avail, then jammed a thumb in the ranger’s eye. Linebaugh cursed and brought a hand to his face, and the centaur kicked the ranger away, rolling back to its feet with surprising agility. It grabbed Linebaugh’s arm and hurled him back onto the rocks in one great, whiplike motion.

The ranger held his shoulder as he tried, unsuccessfully, to get his feet under him. Setting his back against a boulder, he regarded the centaur almost curiously and peered over its shoulder. The beast drew a long, curved dagger and pointed it at Linebaugh, then pantomimed cutting the ranger’s throat as it flashed a wide, evil grin.

The smug look disappeared as Mozu put her entire body weight behind the heavy greatsword and cleaved the hind legs of the creature out from under it. The blade buried itself deeply in the soft earth, and the huge centaur toppled over with a cry and a curse. It raised an arm toward her, hand outstretched and clawing.

She ripped the blade from the dirt in a vicious upward arc and sheared the arm off at the elbow. Linebaugh slumped back and watched, impressed and more than a little surprised.

Clutching at its stump, the centaur lay upon the ground and whimpered as its lifeblood ebbed away in a crimson pool. Mozu stood above the maimed creature and set her feet, seeming to Linebaugh every bit the headsman at that moment. Something deep inside him rejoiced, and he cursed himself.

With an implacable expression, Mozu inhaled sharply as she raised the sword above her head. “Beg for mercy,” the sylvari commanded in flat tones. Unfocused eyes regarded her with confusion.

“. . . _what?_ ” it growled fearfully.

“Beg. For. Mercy.”

“ _M-mer—_ ”

Mozu swung the unwieldy blade down through the torso of the centaur, severing it cleanly from the animal body. The forelegs kicked weakly for a few moments, then fell still.

She hung her head, avoiding Linebaugh’s gaze as she straightened up and slung the sword over one filthy shoulder. The two remaining centaur stood like sentries, watching silently through the trees. Mozu stalked toward them, and they raised their weapons hesitantly.

With a monumental effort, Linebaugh regained his feet and rested his good hand against the rocks for support. He called out to her, “Oi! Lass! Ya—”

A familiar roar cut off his words and echoed through the forest. The centaur peered around nervously, prancing in place, and Linebaugh laughed heartily as he spat blood in their direction. “Ya fuckers.”

A black blur shot past Mozu and hammered one of the raiders off its feet. Boy’s jaws closed around the centaur’s neck as his claws ripped the creature open from sternum to navel. The last centaur took one bewildered step backward, turned tail, and galloped away. Boy shook the corpse like a rag doll for one furious, snarling moment, then tossed it aside and gave chase.

Mozu swayed, staring into the distance long after they’d disappeared, then turned to Linebaugh as if to say something and collapsed.

 

Mozu awoke in the late evening as the last rays of amber light filtered through the canopy above.  She immediately regretted trying to sit up as pain lanced her sides, and a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her. She fell back onto her bedroll. Her whole body ached terribly, and one eye no longer seemed to open properly.

The memories of the fight against the centaur earlier that day slowly came back to her, although her terror and fury had long since faded, leaving only a deep weariness behind. Turning her head at a soft noise, she was confronted with a pair of luminous, green eyes that regarded her from a sober and noble face not an arm’s length away.

Almost desperately, she stretched out a hand toward that velvety muzzle. Boy sniffed at it for a moment, then nuzzled the hand and inched closer so that she could stroke his face. Her heart leapt with joy, and she could feel the rumble deep in his chest. Briefly, she thought of Ibara, and that strange, intense bond that she had felt with him in the Grove. It seemed so far away here.

After a time, Boy’s eyes snapped open, and he turned to peer into the gloom. Even Mozu could hear the sounds of something large tromping through the brush some distance away. That resonant purr continued, however, and she felt that she could make an educated guess at what—or rather, who—that something large was.

“Bah. Tryin’ ta butter up my nitwit cat an’ steal ‘im away from me, are ya?” Linebaugh’s massive outline appeared in the tiny clearing, and he dropped the carcass of a small buck next to the cold firepit. “We’d’a had an easier time o’ things if ya hadn’t run off ta sniff flowers, ya mangy fleabag,” he scolded Boy. The lion ignored the norn, all attention now very obviously focused on his imminent dinner.

Linebaugh knelt and drew something from a pocket that sparked and struck a tiny flame. Within minutes a cozy fire blazed in the small circle of stones, and he turned his back on Mozu as he reached into his pack for a skinning knife.

“Glad ta see yer awake . . .” he trailed off as he set to work on the deer. “Boy was worried sick about ya. Hardly ate a bite.”

She snorted, “Boy was.”

“Aye.”

Mozu reached out to run a hand down the cat’s flank, and he began to rumble again, turning his head back toward her so that she could more easily reach his chin.

“Ya been out fer two days now.” he stated, matter-of-factly.

She gaped at his broad back. “ _Two days?_ ”

“Aye. Ya got tha shit knocked outta ya real good . . .” Linebaug cleared his throat loudly, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, lass.”

“For what?”

He was quiet as he began working again, methodically peeling the fur and skin from the carcass. Silence hung in the air between them for a few minutes. Linebaugh sighed as he tossed the knife aside and ran a hand across his face.

“Fer what. Fer not doin’ the smart thing an’ just movin’ on like ya said. Fer nearly getting’ ya fuckin’ killed.

“I started workin’ alone a long while back now. I ain’t tha smartest fella, ya see.” He rapped on his skull lightly with a knuckle. “Always seem ta get in over my head with some kinda stupid shit. I got . . . I . . . ” He sat back and stared up into the darkness.

Boy rolled over onto his side, and Mozu scratched as his chest absently as the lion's paws kneaded the air.

“I got a lotta folks killed in my time, an’ seen a lot more die o’ their own doin’. Partners, employers, shipmates, innocent folks what had nothin’ ta do with—”

“Linebaugh . . .”

“Hildur, my wife—she was killed on some dumbass scoutin’ mission out in tha Sea o’ Sorrows, along with a lotta other goodfolk.”

“L—“

“My little girl, Siri—she—one’a yer people returned her ta me. I made a pilgrimage ta yer Grove after that, lookin’ fer . . . ” he waved a hand in a vague gesture.

“Peace?”

Linebaugh cleared his throat again. “. . . Aye.”

“Did you find it?” she whispered.

 “Not a day in my life, lass,” his voice cracked as he shook his great, shaggy head from side to side.

Mozu buried her face in her blanket.

“Sixteen, she was, an’ every bit tha hellion her ma was. Gods, that was more’n ten years ago now.”

She crawled from her bedroll, ignoring the lurching ground beneath her, and wrapped her arms about the neck of the fearsome, wounded hunter. Mozu lay her head upon his and held him as his shoulders shook in great, wracking sobs.


End file.
